Love and Books Worth Reading
by OverlyDramatic
Summary: When Inside gets out, all that's left to do is wait.
1. I do not know what it is about you

A/N: This is my first time writing Dan, and my almost first time writing a GG fic. Constructive criticism welcome. Also, if anyone wants to beta for me in the future, let me know.

I doubt I'll have this finished by the time S5 starts, so this will be AU in a few weeks. I hope people enjoy it anyway.

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There was almost no warning.

Dan closed Skype, still smiling from Blair's unabashed gushing. He had finally caved on watching an Audrey film, and though he had a list of critiques primed for the occasion, they had gone unmentioned. He was unused to seeing Blair laud anything with that much enthusiasm. It was refreshing. And more than a little adorable.

Bemusement shook the curls across his forehead as he absently grabbed the package he'd tossed under the table almost four hours earlier.

Besides, Blair had needed the victory.

She seemed withdrawn lately. Castles, it seemed, got more than lonely. But their movie dates—_discussions_, he corrected himself—usually managed to bolster her spirits.

It was a selfish way to quell his increasing worry, he mused as he tore open the box. He hated to see her so subdued—royal smile affixed on painted lips—but Dan felt an unnerving sense of satisfaction in knowing he could make that smile melt into its best self, enigmatic and full of promise. Even the memory of it was enough to steal his attention from the book that slid from the tilted box into his waiting hands.

He glanced down at the cover, furrowed his brows. He hadn't ordered any books lately, and his correspondence with Blair hadn't progressed to anything this tangible. With a shrug Dan peeled away the _Advanced Copy_sticker and felt his stomach lurch. He blinked, looked again, but the image didn't change.

_Inside_; Anonymous

_What the hell?_

Dread building, Dan raised the front cover. There, under the heading _Acknowledgments_, was a single typed line:

_Sometimes, even the best of us needs a push from a friend. –V_

As clearly as he had felt their friendship end when she betrayed Blair—him, their moment—to Serena, he now felt the bitterness tenfold.

Dan dropped the book to the table, fighting the urge to throw something. The book, the box, Vanessa's striped coffee mug that was collecting dust on top of the fridge.

All the pirogues and documentaries in the world could never undo this. This moment, this selfish attempt to mend fences or vanguard glory, was the nail in their coffin. He and Vanessa would never come back from this.

He hadn't expected them to, really, but the finality of his decision left him aimless.

He wanted to see Blair, couldn't see Blair. Rationally, he knew anyone would sympathize the loss of Vanessa Abrams better than Blair.  
>Still, he wished he could call her. He wished he were that brave.<p>

So Dan used the only option he really had left. He crossed the bridge, left the cab's meter running, and gave Vanya the world's only copy of _Inside_, Eric's name scrawled across the cover.

They were the only two he knew he could trust.

He was back in Brooklyn before he could change his mind.

**zzzzz**

Eric called the next day, his well-intentioned, "It's good, but it's . . . not good," did nothing for Dan's nerves.

Dan asked _how_ and _why_ and _is that even legal_?

Eric responded with audible shrugs and consolatory remarks.

"You could try talking to the family lawyer," he offered when all else failed. "You probably can't stop publication at this point, but you might get some sort of reparation."

"Thanks anyway," Dan told him.

"Sorry. This isn't really my area of expertise."

Dan finished the thought:_ It's Blair's._

**_zzzzz_**

He took to solitude. The book's release weighed on him, his own inescapable disaster looming on the horizon. His bi-weekly dates with Blair became the bright spot in his self-darkened world. Keeping him sane and grounding him, funneling patches of sunlight into his hazy reality.

New York was heavy. He took Eric's calls but refused Eric's visits. The one time Lily guilted him into family brunch, he had been so on edge his father had given up asking about him. He was fervently grateful that Nate and Serena had defected to sunnier cities. The grey skyscrapers were his isolation, to wander as he wished.

Vanessa had not simply invaded his privacy and stolen his deepest secrets; she had splashed them before a world full of strangers. People who would praise and critique while Dan felt the repercussions everywhere he went.

There was nothing to do but wait.

Wait for his family to feel the shock, for his friends to take offense, for everyone he'd ever met to come after him with rusty screwdrivers. Or Swarvaski-tipped cake servers.

But mostly, he waited for Blair to call.

He had a speech prepared from the moment the book hit the stands. It was full of "I am so sorry"s and "it just happened"s, and far too many adjectives.

After three hours of staring at a silent phone, he realized that groveling before Blair Waldorf would lead nowhere good. In the oppressive gloom of his study, he sat down by his computer and penned a second speech. Much more reasonable, much more realistic, in which he blamed everything on poetic license.

And he waited for the chance to use it.

She missed _All That Heaven Allows_with no explanation. Dan had been looking forward to her thoughts on the friendship-turned-love affair. Sometimes it seemed like her insights let him know his own mind. Let him see clearly why they agreed, and when he thought she was full of it.

Idly, he wondered if the socially divided romance hit too close to home. He yearned, dreaded, drove himself crazy considering the answer before calling himself an idiot and tossing the DVD into the trash.

He hadn't really wanted to watch it anyway.

**zzzzz**

Serena called him two days after P-Day, full of feigned offense.

"Dan! I can't believe you didn't tell me you wrote a book! Didn't you think I would figure it out?" She laughed, "I mean, you weren't exactly subtle. What, with 'Sabrina' the," she paused, worked the giggles from her throat, and spoke with affected solemnity, "'whirlwind blonde, raining freedom on those of us chained by convention.'"

Dan sighed. "Serena, I'm sorry, I just-"

"Don't worry about it," Serena's voice was warm. "I know how you writers like your secrets. I've been working with enough screen writers lately, I could probably write my own-Oh!" She cut herself off, "I should totally give this to my director! Dan, you wouldn't _believe_how many connections I've made down here. I bet we could even get a deal for a movie adaptation!"

"By all that is holy, _no_."

His objection was vehement, and vehemently ignored. He could practically feel Serena's good-natured eye roll.

"Uh-huh. Play it off, Mr. Big-Time-Published-Author. I'm calling it now, this is going to be epic."

"_Serena_," he started, but she cut him off with a rushed, "Nuh-uh, don't want to hear it! Got to go finish the book, call you when I'm done!"

Dan found himself cursing the dial tone.

**zzzzz**

Serena sent regular updates.

_page 52-Dan, if u'd said that when we were dating, we wouldn't have broken up. ;) u r such a sweetie!_

p69-Georgina is a CRAZY bitch.

p103-omg, did not know that about Nate. LOL.

He amused himself tracing Serena's texts, wondering what Blair might have said instead.

_P124-my mom is SCARY. :)_

(Page 124 is entertaining and insightful. You might have improved it by staying tastefully silent on the subject of Lily and her children.)

p147-deep stuff. wish I could see life like you do.

(Your imagery fell a little flat on page 147. I did like your reinvention of Shakespeare's "all the world's a stage…" with the UES as players.)

p216-…really, Dan?

(Page 216: Really, Humphrey?)

Then the updates stopped, and he knew Serena wouldn't be calling about movie deals.

He wished Blair would call to critique.

It was beginning to feel depressingly familiar. A single moment that redefined Dan's thinking would be the same moment that solidified Blair's preconceptions. Every day, he half-expected the call: "it just made me realize how much I want to be with Louis."

He wasn't sure how he would take it.

Bow out gracefully? If he could. Get over her? Unlikely.

Two weeks passed. Two weeks of silence and skipped movie analyses. Two weeks of staring at the wall, convincing himself not to call her. Two weeks of frustration as he hung up on her voicemail.

Finally over his self-flagellation, Dan focused his efforts on worry. He knew if anything were wrong, every newspaper in the country would be running the story.

Still, it didn't stop his imagination.

_Future Princess Flies into Rage Over Bestseller_accompanied the image of Blair flinging his book through a timeless stained glass window.

_Bride-To-Be Sequestered in the Castle_had her lying stricken on an armchair, curtains drawn.

_Royal Fiancée Dies in Tragic Biking Accident_. It was getting a little ridiculous.

That didn't stop him from scanning the papers.

**zzzzz**

News of her broken engagement flashed across newspapers and tabloids, flushed Dan's veins with vicarious regret and cruel hope.  
>Gossip Girl found her three weeks later, fresh faced and toting novels around the French countryside. Dan spent five hours wondering how she was, if it was it possible to miss her more than he already did, whether his words had contributed to the end of her relationship.<p>

Had she even bothered to read his book? The book she must know was his, in the way that she knew everything except the truth. The depths of his decidedly not platonic feelings for her. The same unchaste thoughts that were lying open on coffee tables in every house but his own.

Eric took pity on him and gave him Harold's address.

Dan carefully considered his options.

For two days he vacillated between burning the address and showing up unannounced. Drunk on cheap beer, he composed a florid love letter, which hit the shredder the moment he sobered. After a week of driving himself insane, Dan signed a copy of _Inside_, added a brief, _love to hear your commentary_, and dropped the plain brown package into a mailbox down the street.

He marked the calendar and waited for a reply.

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The chapter title is from an E.E. Cummings poem, which will provide the titles for the duration of the fic. I'll post the whole exerpt of the poem with the last part.


	2. something in me understands your eyes

Disclaimer: Gossip Girl, Leighton Meester, and Penn Badgley don't belong to me. More's the pity.

I'm just going to go ahead and post this, because there's a good chance I won't be Dair-happy next week. But I guess that's what fics are for, anyway. Please enjoy.

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Four, seven, ten days passed, and still no word from Blair.

Just how mad would she be when she read it?

The book was a letter from the deepest part of him, but he honestly didn't know.

It hadn't been an entity; it had been a process. Barely cohesive, with chunks of composition representing each stage of his life, his ever-changing impressions of the privileged world that seemed to hound him. Some early chapters hadn't been revised since weeks after he penned them.

With nothing better to do to escape the torturous hours—days, weeks—he read.

And he came to realize just how unaware he'd always been of the true Blair Waldorf.

He'd judged her before he'd met her, disliked her the instant he had, and let his preconceptions color their whole relationship. She hadn't been any better. He knew that, and yet . . . .

When he finally saw the true Blair, in increments, building up before he'd realized, he wondered how he'd ever seen her as anything but the intimidating, intelligent, intuitive ingénue she was.

Dan read his own words, saw his life with sudden clarity.

"…_her mind as sharp and deadly as the heels adorning her feet. The confident, couture-clad stride that demanded I yield, _now_. This verbal spar would be equal parts aggravating and invigorating. And before the hour was up, Beatrice Wellesley would leave me rolling my eyes, watching those red-soled heels disappear around the public fountain she guarded so fiercely."_

Blair, who was never more or less than Blair Cornelia Waldorf. Blair, who reveled in destroying her opponents' self-esteem in any underhanded way she could manage; who never failed her friends, no matter how often they failed her; who ribbed and insulted and challenged him until he was a better Dan than before.

"…_so different from the transcendence Sabrina brought to my little Brooklyn apartment. She had filled the narrow rooms with blazing light, illuminating the cracks and seeming all the more beautiful in the space between _she_ and _me_. But Bea effused an unwitting glow, warming the rough edges of the loft until the sight of her Louboutins, tucked safely beneath the ringed and pocked coffee table, gave me no pause. Just the opposite, it filled my mind with possibilities."_

Blair's spark left his lesser works smoldering ash. Blair ignited a book.

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In the silence, Dan wrote a third speech in his head. Just for him (and an imaginary her). The storybook ending he would never have.

"Blair, you're more than I could hope to capture in metaphor and imagery. You're the 'and' in every sentence. The conjunction that pulls me in. The opposite that attracts me, the contradiction that captures my thoughts. The one person I never thought I'd want, and somehow, now . . . the only woman I can see myself loving."

It is cheesy, and disjointed, and far too real for him to put to paper.

He replays the words endlessly as he waits.

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It was his third visit to the Met this week, and Dan had holed himself up in a little café off the main floor, with coffee mugs and half-eaten pastries as his only company.

His advanced copy of _Inside_ was more scratched and scrawled on than his manuscript had ever been, but Dan couldn't bring himself to stop. His eyes were fixed on a chunk of prose that had been pestering him for weeks, the spine so worn the pages lay flat on their own.

"_I looked for it. The hesitance she refused to show, that I knew she felt. The little cracks I had missed all along. Somehow, she was as vulnerable as Sabrina had ever been. Needy and broken and praying for love. And so much stronger than anyone I had known, because failure was simply a blip, catalogued and brushed off, as she pushed onward in the struggle to achieve her dreams."_

The neat, typed letters—scrawled so hastily nearly two years back, when a stray comment from Vanessa was all it took to convince him of Blair's culpability—swam circles around him. Some days the words didn't seem like her at all. The days when she was fierce and unforgiving, lofty and cinematic. Other days—every day since she disappeared from the world—he couldn't escape their veracity. Blair Waldorf, a cracked Venus de Milo, looking for all the world like she had orchestrated every chip of the artist's chisel.

And then there were days like today. Days when he knew that his words were somehow unfailingly true and unflinchingly misguided. Days when he wondered how she managed to evade his neat little literary box.

Blair Waldorf was like a riddle that refused to let him solve her.

So he fiddled with Beatrice, and tried to ignore the implications of the Gossip Girl blast lying open on his phone.

_Spotted:_ _Queen Bee Returning to Her Throne_.

**bdbdbdbd**

He told himself he wasn't wallowing. Really. He was reinforcing his emotional walls. Trying his best to understand. Convincing himself she could be happy.

He _might_ have spent nearly two hours pouring over his narrator's infatuation with Beatrice. He might have added more edits than typeface to the chapter detailing his heroine's harrowing escape from the matrimonial clutches of a one-dimensional Scottish prince.

He might have decided that fixing the ending could effectively kill any chance of a sequel, which was good news for him. Sequels always tanked.

Bea _might_ have married a prince. He could change the end before the next order printed.

He had nearly lost himself in revisions of Bea's runaway marriage when a voice floated over his shoulder. A voice that sent thrills from his heart to his fingers, jolting the pen across the page.

"Humphrey."

She sounded just as always, commanding and warm and haughty in the best possible way. Before Blair, he didn't know there _was_ a best way to be haughty.

"I braved a commercial airliner to see you. The least you could do was actually be at the loft when I got there."

Dan swallowed, clutch his pen tighter, and slowly twisted to face her. And she was there. Really there. Eyebrow quirked, curls just off-kilter, the hand on her hip swallowed in folds that fell to the floor.

And, apparently, fresh from Brooklyn.

"Sorry," the word was a reflex. But nothing else came out.

_To see _me_?_

_Why are you here?_

_I missed you._

_Gossip Girl was right, after all._

_How did you find me?_

_You look good. Really, really good._

Blair's lips parted, ready to counter his opening remark.

None of his inane conversation starters made it into the world. He just stared stupidly at her, unable to connect his body to his brain.

Blair pressed her lips into a line, apparently thrown off-balance by Dan's inability to respond. Her fingers twisted almost imperceptibly into the floral fabric of her skirt. She half-caught her lip in her teeth before remembering herself.

Dan's eyes caught all the details, automatically translating them for the book in his head. The sequel. Blair—Bea—in Brooklyn.

Deliberately, Blair let her hand fall from her hip, fingers flaring in a graceful flourish as they swept the wrinkles from her clothes. Then she slid a large handbag onto Dan's table, deftly avoiding coffee mugs and crumbs alike.

Dan blinked up at her, and finally opened his mouth. He hoped the words would spring up before he needed to speak.

But he didn't need to worry. Blair had already written the next scene. She reached into her bag and dropped two books on the table. After a moment, he pulled them closer.

The first was a copy of _Inside_, clearly abused, with unkempt pages and a scratched cover. Her second copy was perfect: white pages, flawless picture, bookmark placed carefully to mark his signature.

_Love to hear your commentary. –Dan_

Blair slipped into the chair opposite him and slid her fingers along the glossy cover.

"Your names were a bit unoriginal," she began with no more preamble. "Sabrina was the worst, of course, but they could all use a little work. Beatrice was nice," she admitted, lips twitching upward for barely a second. "At least you delved into literature. I'd have been disappointed if you'd used something as obvious as, say, Claire."

"It means 'bringer of joy,'" he explained. He didn't know why. He had chosen it for Shakespeare's Beatrice, a woman of endless fire and intelligence.

"Ironic," Blair noted.

"Not necessarily," he took a deep breath, and felt the words flood his mouth, "I mean, you might permanently scar girls for carrying last season's handbags, but somehow you have this charm that just-" He stopped himself just in time and tried again. "I almost named her Belle, but that seemed a little too cliché, you know? I mean, everyone knows you're beautiful, but you're not exactly-" he drummed his fingers on the table, giving his stuttering heart a rhythm to follow. "Uh," he swallowed, "conventional. Despite your best efforts," he added, as wryly as he could manage.

Blair fiddled with his plate, expression unreadable. Dan berated himself for his idiotic rambles as she carefully peeled the lining from a muffin, picked off a piece, and—thankfully—ignored his inanity.

"So if I'm Beatrice, that makes you . . . Benedick Arnold?" she dropped the bit of pastry back to the plate, tilting her head in that way that demanded answers.

Dan cringed at her quip.

"Oh, it couldn't have been that bad, Humphrey," Blair countered stolidly.

"Believe me, Blair. It was."

Blair folded her hands on the edge of the table, tilted her head forward, and waited.

With a sigh, Dan admitted, "Lily forgave me pretty easily—all her dirty laundry's already been aired—, and my dad wasn't pleased, but . . . you know, he's my dad."

"And everyone else?" she asked, voice softer than he expected. She hesitated, then pressed, "Serena?"

"Has been studiously ignoring me while making sure the paparazzi catch her at every major event in LA."

"That's . . . expected," Blair mused. Glancing at Dan's defeated expression, she rolled her eyes, "Oh please, Humphrey. You can't expect to expose your friends and family, publically criticize Serena's effervescent catch-and-release mentality, and escape without repercussions. Really, you got off easy. If Chuck had taken offense, I'm fairly certain your loft wouldn't be standing." She narrowed her eyes, suddenly suspicious. "It is still standing, isn't it?"

"I think I'd almost prefer it weren't. At least then I could accept the consequences and move on. All this waiting and avoiding is just . . ."

"Art alienates," Blair shrugged. "Didn't they teach you that in _Penning Brilliance for Dummies_?"

"Was that a veiled compliment?" Dan regarded her appraisingly.

"Of course not. It was a statement of fact. Your book is brilliant." She made a point of eying him before concluding, "You, not so much."

"I never meant for anyone to see it," he admitted. "It was just," he shrugged, swirled the dregs of his coffee, "the inner workings of my brain."

"And how blessed we are to be a part of it," Blair deadpanned.

When Dan failed to crack a smile, she sighed.

"So how did it get published in the first place?"

"Vanessa."

It was not a name, it was a string of dissonant sounds wrenching free of his throat.

"Trollessa?" Blair muttered, expression souring.

Despite himself, Dan cracked a smile. "She, well, stole it, I guess. And had it published."

"_Why_?"

Dan shrugged.

"To teach me a lesson, or something. I don't really know."

Blair fell silent, and Dan was captivated and concerned by the mischievous spark kindling in her eyes.

"There's nothing we can do about it, now," he tried to divert her. "I'm over it, really."

"There's _plenty_ we could do about it," Blair corrected, clearly implying that he should know better than to underestimate her. He probably should, by now. "Legal repercussions, for one. And social annihilation is always entertaining. And I think I'd enjoy making sure she freezes in the Sundance version of Siberia. Goodness knows V would shrivel up and die without hipster feedback."

He had to admit, he was oddly tempted. Just for a moment.

"She's not even in the country anymore," he reminded himself aloud. Blair's expression turned positively gleeful, and Dan's, "Blair, please," was as much to bring himself back to reality as anything.

She looked up, studied his expression, and rolled her eyes.

"Fine," she acceded.

Dan's smile was genuine. Blair met his gaze, and quirked her lips almost shyly. And suddenly they were back at that awkward moment when Blair swept into the museum and Dan couldn't convince himself she was real.

Dan idly pushed his napkin across on the table, watching as Blair twisted a curl around her finger.

"Why here?" she broke the silence.

He blinked at her.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Why are you nursing your caffeine at the Met? Of all the coffee shops in all the boroughs in the city-"

"You just happened to walk into mine?" Dan teased.

The corners of Blair's mouth inched upward.

"It's not the sort of place I'd chose for you to brood."

"I was writing," he corrected, not feeling the offense he would have even nine months prior.

"As I said," Blair countered, eyes amused.

She allowed him an affectionate eye roll before affixing him with an expectant expression.

For all the excuses that jumped to his lips, Dan spoke the truth.

"Call me crazy, but when I picture the Met, I picture Blair Waldorf."

It was clearly not the response Blair was expecting. Her breath hitched and her eyes darted to the book lying open at Dan's elbow, then out to the door. Her fingers stiffened on the table, and it took longer than a moment for her to compose herself.

When she had, Blair resolutely ignored the implication of his admission.

"At least here we have anonymity. I haven't been seen at the Met in years, and if Gossip Girl catches anything we'll at least have plaus-" her words faded as she realized what she was saying.

He couldn't help it. It was like she never left.

"Plausible deniability?" he quipped.

Blair quirked a half-smile, breathed a laugh. "Yes. Plausible deniability. We still have that, I suppose. After a fashion."

_Do we?_

It was the difference between possibilities and princes, writing and reality.

Dan couldn't bring himself to ask.

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Yeah. So I really meant to post all three parts fairly close together, but my computer crashed (twice), so I couldn't access the document for two weeks. And then I was scared for a while that the document was gone, cause they wiped my harddrive and my backup was being finicky. Bu lo and behold, the dair gods were smiling on my muse.

I feel odd about posting this fic with no outside editing. I really hope it's okay.

And hold your breath and pray, my lovelies, because I have a feeling Monday night will be a lesson in patience. Let's hope for one or two shining moments through all the muck. Honestly, if they make Blair pregnant I think I may give up on the show and just watch Dair on youtube. Sigh.


	3. not even the rain has such small hands

So, Louis's sister is apparently named Beatrice. That's a bit amusing.

Unbeta'd. Forgive.

**Disclaimer: None of it is mine, except the parts that don't get me sued.**

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If there was one thing Dan knew about Blair Waldorf, it was that she coveted control. Scheming sisters, too perfect princes, and adultery scandals were brushed aside as simple kinks in the plan. And when her castle came crashing down and Blair chose to escape, she left a ring in Louis' hand and a Vivier slipper in the closet.

The fairy tale was a lie. Her goodbye was pure poetry.

Dan watched Blair sip her tea as she tried to write off her failed engagement.

"As it turns out, the prince couldn't slay the beast, so . . ." she paused, searching for the end of her metaphor. "The princess fled the tower," she finally shrugged.

Despite himself, Dan smiled, crooked, "More like, 'the princess slew the beast in his stead.'"

Blair allowed herself a smile. "Yes, that too." She paused, remembering, and suddenly laughed, "Louis was not at all pleased when I finally put his sister in her place."

"Yeah, well from experience, it's not the easiest thing to watch."

Blair raised a perfectly arched brow, and Dan decided she was right. He did not want to go there.

"I'm glad you're back," he admitted instead. "The city was boring without you."

"Didn't you spend the last several months cowering in Brooklyn?"

The words were just airy enough to provoke a return quip.

"Made it easier to keep up on Gossip Girl's daily 'Where in the World is Blair Waldorf?' column."

"I imagine it's better for me that you weren't mobbed the afternoon of your book release. Blood clashes with plaid. But then," she eyed his t-shirt, "Gap clashes with bestselling author, and you seem to have made that work for you."

Dan smiled, happy to fallback on familiar banter.

"Was there a compliment somewhere in there?"

"I have no control over your interpretation of my fashion critiques," Blair deflected. "Luckily for you, the rest of the world seems solely concerned with your prose." She glanced down at the books on the table, two of hers and one of his, and grew pensive. "Public opinion indicates you're the next Fitzgerald."

"It wasn't public opinion I was concerned about," he divulged, remembering the endless days he refused to leave the loft.

Dan looked down at his advanced copy, picturing the slashes and cramped handwriting littering its pages.

Following his gaze, Blair scrutinized the ink-stained cover.

"The social fallout could have been worse," she reminded him, fingers inching toward the cover, but pulling back.

Dan almost wished she would read his notes, give his unwitting feelings the rejection the publisher should have given his book. It would be easier if he could just hear it and move on.

It was this dangerous line of thinking that made him blurt, "Your opinion is the only one that really matters."

"Dan," the incredulous protest was barely a whisper. They stared at each other for a beat, and he could practically her deciding how to interpret his declaration. "I know I'm the only intellectual equal of your acquaintance-"

"Blair," he cut through the attempt, clearly telling her that wasn't what he meant.

She glanced down at the books again, as though divining his thoughts from their pages.

"You are the most important person to me."

Blair took a breath, and admitted, "You're important to me, too, Humphrey."

The angle of her head, tempting gravity to pull her hair around and shield her face, spoke volumes. She meant what she said. But her words were a defense tactic. Admit a little, so he wouldn't push for more.

But Dan wasn't satisfied. He needed her to know. Needed some sort of closure, good or bad. His closest guarded secrets were printed on her bookshelf. It was only fair that he own up to them in person.

"Blair," he began slowly, not quite sure how to articulate his thoughts, "you're sharp-witted, and keen-minded, and can tear me to shreds without even trying."

She smiled, though she looked afraid to do so, and it lingered for half a heartbeat.

"You're flawed," Dan continued earnestly, "but that only speaks to your favor. You're tenacious, and impassioned, and inspired." He took a moment to appreciate the light playing along her eyelashes, and added, "Incandescent. And Blair," he took a breath, steeled himself, "I lo-"

"Don't," she cringed, and the words caught in his throat.

"What?" he asked hoarsely.

The courage swelling in his veins scattered, leaving him bereft and empty.

"Just-" she refused to look at him; stared at the ink smudge on the inside of his elbow as she made her entreaty, "-just, don't. Please."

She knew what he wanted to say. He knew she did. She'd read his book, ignored his calls, and traveled halfway around the world to find him in a little museum coffee shop. And now, at the penultimate moment, she couldn't let him finish?

"What were you expecting, Blair?" He combed his fingers through his hair, frustration leeching the steadiness from his hands. "Did you really think the most candid words I've ever written were just _poetic license_?"

"I knew you-I mean, I _thought_ you-" she groped for the words, eyes darting through her lashes—not quite meeting his—then hurrying back to study her fingers. She gave up with a sigh, "I just don't know if I can hear it right now."

He opened his mouth to tell her anyway, to push her away, to finally admit that for all his efforts, he can't be _just friends_ with her.

"Of course," escaped into the air instead, mocking him.

Her querulous smile was almost enough to remove the lingering distaste of self-aggravation. The loaded silence that followed brought it back in full force.

He forced a careless expression.

"So now that you've pulled a Grace Kelly, what's next?"

He had meant the question to divert them from more serious topics. Blair's sudden flash of vulnerability caught him by surprise.

"I think, perhaps, I'll-" she took a breath, eyes flicking toward the cheap table, and finished, "stick to Blair Waldorf for a while." Her words were soft, methodical, as though unsure how the world would receive her admission.

"I'm glad."

Despite the mental warnings, his words were earnest.

Blair glanced up, surprised. She took a minute to examine him, to convince herself he wasn't overstepping. He made sure she was satisfied before he continued.

"Blair Waldorf is . . ." he took a steadying breath and went for broke, "'a rose in a patch of briars. Soft leaves and hidden thorns, the tantalizing bloom forever out of reach. Compelling for her parts, and coveted for her whole.'"

The metaphor was not his best. He had scratched through it three separate times in his early drafts. But it seemed to be what she needed.

"I-thank you," was her fervent reply.

His heart clenched, and against his better judgment Dan slid his fingers across all three copies of _Inside_ to brush against hers. She took a sharp breath, fingers curling against the table, and did not pull away.

She hadn't needed to ask what he was quoting. Honestly, Dan couldn't imagine a more heartfelt declaration.

He got one anyway. Blair's fingers hooked suddenly into his, and she regarded him with more earnestness than he was used to seeing.

Despite himself, Dan's chest gave a leap.

"I don't love you, Dan."

The words were soft and blunt.

Worse, they were unexpected. He had thought—hoped really—that her sudden appearance in New York—her sweet, commanding, "Humphrey," as though it had been hours and not months since he had seen her—had meant something.

The sudden ache in Dan's throat pushed a tight smile to his lips.

Blair hardly seemed to notice, breathing deeply and sliding her eyes closed as she exhaled.

He should have known better.

To be honest, he had known better. But he sometimes forgot to think rationally when surrounded by the waft of Chanel No. 5.

Her hands were still and warm on his.

"I don't love you," she repeated, and her eyes slowly opened to catch his. The hesitance in her gaze surprised him. "But I like you enough to," her breath hitched. She swallowed, then she went resolutely on, "to, well, _try_."

"'Try?'" he repeated hoarsely, mind in chaos.

She opened her mouth, bit her lip, nodded.

"To love me?" he verified, a little lost, a little incredulous.

"Well, not necessarily to _love_-" she began, dropping his hand suddenly. "That is," she swept her fingers across her lap, brushing away imaginary lint, "I mean, try _seeing_ . . . where this might-. I mean," she floundered, and her fingers paused.

She looked up at him slowly and swallowed back her protests. He held her gaze for a long moment, inexplicably hopeful.

"Yes," she huffed, arms crossing under the ruffles at her collar.

Resolute, real, and perfectly Blair.

A grin split Dan's face.

"Don't look so happy, Humphrey," Blair warned. Her tone was sardonic, but her eyes held a hint of unease. "I'm not promising a fairy tale."

"Overrated," he assured her. He intended to treat her better than the last few princes, anyway.

The weight of the moment hit him, and Dan couldn't sit there anymore. He pushed back his chair and stood, watching Blair watch him circumvent the table.

"And it's not going to be like your book," she continued as he advanced on her.

Rendezvous and parties, moments stolen when no one was watching. Lovers beholden to the expectations that enslaved them.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he countered.

"Dan." His name was confusion and caution tempered with longing.

"Blair," he caught her gaze and extended his hand. She glanced down, eying his offering, and slowly placed her fingers in his. His smile deepened, grew soft around the edges. "You know as well as I do that I'm in love with you."

He fought the panic in her eyes by pulling her towards him. She rose from the chair with a swish of fabric and came to rest a foot too far away.

"You're not going to scare me off."

He moved their connected hands to her hip, moved his other one to cup her neck, and finally, finally kissed her. Lightly, the faintest pressure. Letting her adjust. Giving her time to pull away.

Tentative, her hand crept upward, sweeping along his shoulder.

For all that had happened she still pressed against him just so, still glided her fingers along the collar of his shirt, still paused when her fingertips brushed the skin of his neck. A tantalizing ghost of touch, like she was afraid to push it further.

He pulled her closer, their elbows curving together, and kissed her more deeply. She responded in earnest, and at last her free hand abandoned the safety of his collar to explore his curls.

He cradled her face, relishing the feeling. He was allowed to, this time. The smell, feel, taste of Blair—he could cherish every nuance; memorize her anew every time he took a breath.

At last Blair seemed to remember herself—Dan wasn't sure he ever would—and slowly eased them back down, until their lips were merely brushing as they attempted to catch their breath.

She pulled away, and glanced down to their sole remaining connection. Her hand and his, twisted awkwardly together in the fabric of her skirt. Her fingers flexed, thumb skating over his, but their palms remained solidly pressed together.

Dan couldn't remember a better feeling.

"Just like that?" she asked when her voice was steady. She was probably aiming for wry, but simply sounded unconvinced.

Dan tilted his head, confusion in the lines around his eyes.

"Just like what?"

"Just like that," she repeated, clarifying, "you love me?"

Dan raised a brow.

"I wouldn't say 'just like that.' I mean, it took me a while to get here." He paused as if to think it over and concluded, "Four years or so."

Blair hummed to herself, and Dan got the feeling he was missing something.

"That's all I've got."

Despite himself, nervousness crept in.

"Do you need," he hesitated, unsure of how to word his diffidence. He knew the prince didn't make her happy, the mogul brought her misery, but maybe she wanted ". . . more?" he finished, cursing his ineloquence.

A small smile affixed itself to Blair's lips. She pressed them together, fighting the feeling, then gave up and laughed.

Dan didn't know whether to feel pleased or offended.

"Blair?"

"No, Humphrey," she mollified. Their hands were still linked between them, and Blair slowly maneuvered her fingers until they were laced solidly through his. "That's perfect. Really."

She was still feeling awkward, he could tell. Happy, but unable to convince herself it was allowable.

"Have you seen the Steiglitz exhibit?" he asked.

Together they gathered their things, and Blair slipped her arm through his as they exited the café.

"Humphrey." She may as well have said, _'are you kidding?_' "I'm still in my clothes from the flight."

"And you spent an hour trying to convince me the Humphrey charm is ineffective?" he teased.

He half expected her to deny it, or ignore it, or drop his elbow and rush into a waiting town car. The no-bullshit tilt of her head was a welcome alternative.

"Better than the three months you spent pretending for the mirror."

Her retort held a hint of question, and Dan couldn't help but respond.

"Waldorf, I've been pretending not to love you since you abandoned me in your foyer."

Her fingers tightened on his arm, but she dismissed him with an, "Oh, please."

"You didn't give me much choice in the matter," he mock-complained. "Much as I might wish otherwise."

"Do you wish otherwise?"

He glanced over to study her: eyes carefully nonchalant, lipstick soft from kissing but somehow not smudged.

"I'm pretty happy where I am."

"Of course you are," she countered. It wasn't enough to hide the pleased curve of her lips, so she pulled him toward the exhibit and pretended to read the museums' overture.

"So, you chose the man from Brooklyn," he asked, grin working at the corners of his mouth.

"You wrote a book about me," her breathlessness spoiled the careful nonchalance of her tone. "That's more than any other man can say."

"I wrote a book about a lot of people," he reminded her as she gave up the pretense of reading and pulled him into the exhibit.

"No," she disagreed, more serious than he expected. "You wrote a book that _included_ a lot of people. But," she paused and looked straight at him. The contours of a nearby painting formed a frame around her face, and he caught the barest hint of awe in her gaze, "you wrote a book about me."

And he knew, in that moment, that it wasn't the book that caught her attention. It was knowing how fully she had caught his.

"I guess I did."

**dbdbdbdbdbdbdb**

**(i do not know what it is about you that closes**  
><strong>and opens;only something in me understands<strong>  
><strong>the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)<strong>  
><strong>nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands<strong>

_-T.S. Eliot_

**dbdbdb**

END

**dbdbdb**

Okay, so this is cheesy and imperfect, and not entirely what I set out to write. But I hope ya'll have enjoyed it anyway. And maybe Dan and Blair will be kind enough to continue the goodness onscreen, so I don't have to try putting the scenes rolling around my head to (virtual) paper and butcher their characters in the process.

Please leave comments/criticism/emoticons or whatever. Feedback is love.


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